RvB: Bloody Fuckin' New Year
by Brovenger
Summary: It's New Years Eve at FREELANCER HQ and a drunk Washington decided once and for all to show those little camping bastards in his head who's boss. Now, where is his pistol again?


**A/N: Hey look, my first fic of 2011! Is this a good sign for me? I hope so. There's some things I don't like about this one, but overall I'm very pleased. I fucking love writing about messed up, broken Washington.

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The sound of fireworks going off directly outside of the building reverberated throughout his room. David sat next to the large bay window, the lights from outside barely able to seep into the shadows of his hidey-hole. Red or blue flashed across him every few seconds as the sparks and flames outside danced in the night, changing shapes and sometimes forming words. Whoops and hollers from inside the building melded together with the outside noise as the people next door proceeded to get their drink on and party. He smirked a little, bringing the whiskey bottle to his lips and tilting his head back, joining them in the act of getting shit-faced. The amber liquid trickled from its glass container and down his throat. As it hit the acids in his stomach the organ made him painstakingly aware of how little it truly appreciated having to digest even _more_ of that shit. He swallowed anyway and let the now-empty bottle drop from his hand, it hit the carpeted floor with a dull clunk and rolled under his bed. He sighed, letting out a slow breath between his lips and sunk back even farther into the wall.

_Not there yet…_ he mused. He looked around his darkened room, eyeing the shadows on the walls and the black shapes of his furniture. He searched for the glint of another bottle and frowned as he began to realize he may not have one; and that just wouldn't do. He stood up, slowly, shakily and leaned on the table next to his bed. He blinked as more of the exploding balls of light were fired into the sky, sending a blazingly bright sphere of colors blasting across his already blurred vision.

The sudden flare of hues caused him to lose his equilibrium. He went to take a step and ended up flat on his face, his head lodged in a pair of some faceless woman's panties. As drunk as he was (which still wasn't drunk _enough_) he found his situation funny and broke out into a small fit of laughter as he fumbled into a sitting position. He reached up and pulled the pink lacey garment off of his head. He gave it a half-interested glance before he discarded it.

_Are those Carolina's?_ he wondered, once again attempting to stand up. Somewhere in the back of his alcohol-and-Xanax addled mind he thought about how fucking _pissed_ York was gonna be if he found out he had a pair of his girlfriend's underwear in his room.

Ah well, maybe Delta'd take pity on him and not let York beat the shit out of him again. The again, the guy did deserve it, he was half blind anymore.

Finally making it to the dresser, he wrenched open the top drawer, now desperately searching for something in a glass bottle with a fancy label. Growing frustrated he tugged the drawer completely out of the metal encasing and let it fly across the room. It slammed into the pexi-glass bay window, creating a thunder of a sound and causing the panel to rattle and bounce its frame.

Wash rubbed at his head as he stumbled across the living space to his bathroom. It took him a few minutes of playing with the doorknob to finally get the door open. When he did, he fell into the bathroom in a heap, losing his balance again. At least this time he was able to avoid crashing into the toilet and knocking himself unconscious.

Practice makes perfect.

He ran his hand along the counter, searching for a good hold. Gripping the plastic top he pulled himself up and leaned heavily on it, blinking rapidly in the dark. He slid down the length of the shelf until he found the spot with the light switch and flipped into the on position.

Worst. Idea. Ever.

The 85 megawatt bulb was summoned into existence and wasted no time in sending rays of light directly into his clouded retinas, and by extension, his very brain. Reacting to this, his brain decided to start sending out little workers with jackhammers to attack the inside of his skull. How fucking counter-productive to the battle was _that_?

"Ow, ow, ow," he muttered, squinting and shielding his eyes with one hand. He stood there for a second as he tried to remember why he'd even come in the bathroom in the first place…did he have to pee? He didn't think so, though he made a mental note to try before he left the room.

Did he want to shower? …nah, he smelled pretty okay. It'd only been a few days since he showered last. Or had it been a week? Suddenly, an orange glint caught his eye.

Wait, pills!

_That_ was why he'd come into the bathroom!

Smiling to himself and feeling like he'd just accomplished a great and difficult task, he reached out for the group of three bottles sitting by the toothpaste (which tasted like Red Bull- which was disgusting) and began popping the caps off them. He dumped a few out of each into his hand and plucked them up into his mouth as if they were candy and he had a very bad sugar craving (mmm, sugar!). He leaned forward and turned the cold water on, sticking his head under the faucet and gulping some down. He swallowed the lump of oddly-shaped masses in his throat and started feeling relief from his headache (fucking jackhammers) almost instantly.

He stood up straight and eyed himself in the mirror. It'd been a while since his last shave, which had been before his last shower, whenever the fuck that was. Brown and grey stubble dotted his cheeks, the color scheme matching the hair on his head, which was likewise in disarray. He grinned sheepishly at himself, leaning back a little. At least he still looked better than Maine did. (Fucking blonde-haired, fake-tanned little bitch.)

He blinked suddenly, straightening up and looking around the room slowly. He could have sworn he'd just heard someone call Maine a little bitch, and no one was allowed to that but him-

…oh…

Whoops.

He shrugged, slapping his hand against the wall at the light switch, clicking the evil fucking rays of death off. (Yay, he won. Suck on **that**!) The jackhammers inside of his skull finally called it a day and packed up, retreating back into wherever-the-fuck they lived when they weren't pushing his pain signals into overdrive. He suspected they lived in that big hole Epsilon left just before the AI imploded. Which meant they were probably scheming together with the little fucked up bastards' ghost.

He made a mental note to get rid of the jackhammer operators as soon as possible. He was willing to bet he could do it with one clip. Hmm, that would make for an interesting experiment. Where was his pistol, again?

Making his way over to the desk beside his bed, he tripped over a chair. The accident caused him to bang his knee, which hurt really fucking bad, so he kicked the chair over. That'd show it. He found his desk, and sitting on top of it next to a box of ammo was his pistol, just like he'd assumed.

Well, it was nice to know some things went as planned after all. All it took was a little incentive!

He set about tinkering with the weapon, his drunken and pill-high haze making the simple action of popping the magazine out three times as hard as it normally was. He didn't notice his bedroom door open and someone walk in until they clicked the bedroom lights on.

"Hey, Wash, come on York and I are gonna-" Maine stopped dead as Wash turned around. His green eyes shot to the pistol in his hand and he reflexively tensed, preparing to have to draw his own.

"David, what are you doing?" he asked , holding his right arm out in front of him and taking a step. "Put the gun down."

Washington blinked at him, not understanding his sudden change in demanor. He looked down at Maine's extended hand and followed his friend's line of vision to his own. After a few seconds of staring at the gun in his hand, he 'got' it. Finding Maine's freak-out silly, he failed to contain his laughter.

"Oh, what, this?" he brought the gun up, getting a better grip on it. "Pfft, it's not what yer, thinking! It ain't even loaded, see?"

"Wash-"

His grip slipped, causing his finger to spasm around the trigger.

The sudden crack seemed impossibly loud in the small room. Wash fell towards the floor, the back of his bleeding head bouncing off the desk as he went down. His vision was even worse than it'd been before, and he saw red all over Maine's face as his friend hovered over him. Words turned into odd vibrations that made no sense as a screeching noise echoed throughout the…building…?

His thoughts started getting muddled, making even less sense than normal.

"Oh god, David!" Maine yelled, looking over his shoulder. "York! York, I need your healing unit, **now**!"

"Maine, what the _**fuck**_ was that?"

"Just get in here!"

Washington managed to choke out a laugh, at least to him it sounded like a laugh, to his panicked friends that were leaning over him and yelling, it just sounded like a howl of pain.

_Best. Friends. Evar. _he thought as he lost consciousness.


End file.
